


Hush

by Angelike



Category: Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: 10_prompts, Established Relationship, Humor, Incest, M/M, One Shot, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Plot What Plot, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-25
Updated: 2008-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 12:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelike/pseuds/Angelike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murtagh accosts Eragon at the edge of the Varden camp immediately upon returning from a mission. Much sensation and frustration ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush

**Author's Note:**

> My very first attempt at porn. Um. Yeah.
> 
> This story was written in response to the "Silence" prompt for the 10_prompts livejournal community.

“Murtagh?” Eragon said with an uneasy frown, taking an involuntary step back as his newly returned comrade-in-arms stalked forward with a rather disconcerting expression on his face. He’d seen looks like that before, though never directed at him: ravenous predators often looked – and moved – liked that as they contemplated their prey, preparing to pounce. He chuckled wearily. He was being overly paranoid: surely Murtagh didn’t intend to make a meal of him. “Murtagh, what’s going on? You’re back early.” Far too early. No one had expected the Red Rider to return from his mission for another three days – and that at the earliest. Worry set in full-force. “Did something go wrong?”

“No,” Murtagh replied, but Eragon’s relief was fleeting as the elder boy finally closed the last of the distance between them, an all-too-familiar smirk teasing his lips as Eragon took another step back only to belatedly realized that he’d managed to trap himself between a rock and a hard place – or rather, more accurately, between a tree and his mischievous brother. With his back to an ancient oak and Murtagh’s arms effectively caging him, there was no escape.

Oh, drat! Nothing good could come of this.

His heart fluttered erratically.

“Murtagh?” he started, wetting his lips nervously. Murtagh’s breath was warm on his face, and his mouth was close, so close… “You know we can’t. Not with the Varden camp so near. Someone could come. Someone could hear us. Someone could _see_.”

“So?”

And then Murtagh’s lips were against his, soft and gentle and so very _right_. The touch was chaste and fleeting and Eragon found himself leaning forward, desperately trying to maintain the contact as his brother playfully pulled away, eyes laughing down at him. Eragon pouted, and steeled his resolve. Someone had to be the sensible one.

“So, we _both_ agreed that we would have to keep up appearances while with the Varden,” he said firmly, hands reaching up to rest on his lover’s chest, still clad in his riding leathers, and tried to push his way free – or at least put a little distance between them. Murtagh didn’t budge. Neither did that _confounded_ smirk. “This is too risky.”

“Oh, _my sweet lover_! Didn’t you miss me at all? Gone for a week, and all I could think about was you: your eyes, your lips, your touch, your kiss… And here it seems you are unhappy that I’ve risked life and limb just so I could return to your embrace that much sooner! Is it me, or does this love seem a little one sided?” The words were harsh, but his lover’s eyes were warm and teasing.

Eragon scowled. “Would you stop fooling around? You know this has nothing to do with _feelings_ and everything to do with discretion—”

“Yes, discretion. Of course,” Murtagh agreed easily. “Well, then, brother, we shall just have to be very quiet, now won’t we?”

And here Murtagh dropped to his knees and proceeded to attack his stubborn lover’s trousers.

“What—?” Eragon gasped, cheeks flushing with a chaotic mixture of horror, embarrassment, and, yes, arousal. He was a teenager. Give him a break! What living, breathing, teenage male _wouldn’t_ be aroused by the sight of his lover, kneeling and eager? “N-no,” he tried again – but it was a lost cause. The heat of the other’s body had always done strange things to his libido, and with his half-erect member already in Murtagh’s teasing grasp, even _Eragon_ wasn’t convinced by his own feeble protest. It had been so long since he and Murtagh had been able to sneak away for some “alone-time” and he was tired of keeping company with his own hand.

Murtagh trailed a lone finger along the underside of Eragon’s cock, snickering smugly at the younger boy’s startled moan. “Hush, now, my love. Be a good boy, and hold your tongue, or I shall have to punish you,” he warned huskily, before leaning forward to swallow him down in a single, practiced swoop.

If Eragon wasn’t hard before, he certainly was now – painfully so.

“Oh, ‘Tagh…!” Eragon sobbed fitfully. How could he have possibly tried to resist? He had forgotten how good it was, how wonderful. Murtagh’s strong hands at his hips, holding him in place – his hot mouth, his talented tongue… Everything… “So good!”

Then it was all gone.

“Now, Eragon,” Murtagh said, glaring sternly, “didn’t I just tell you to be silent? Am I going to have to gag you?”

Eragon bit his lip, shaking his head vigorously. At this point, he’d promise anything just to get that sinful mouth back on him. Oh, please. Oh, _please_.

Alas, Murtagh was doubtful – or enjoying his lover’s distress. Probably the latter, the tease.

“Are you sure? Because if you can’t be quiet, we’re going to have to stop, right? You wouldn’t want to be caught, now would you? Or maybe you’d like that?” His voiced dropped, darkening with his own desire. “Caught with your pants around your ankles, panting for your brother like a slut… What would everyone think of you?”

Eragon whimpered piteously, tears of need forming in his eyes.

“My poor Eragon,” he comforted, grasping the tormented boy’s shirt to pull him down for a kiss, awkward and messy. Eragon relished it. “You’ll be good?” Murtagh prompted, tracing the softness of the boy’s cheeks, reading the yearning in his shimmering eyes.

Eragon nodded, letting a few tears fall, only to have them kissed away by the very person who’d inspired them.

“Right then,” said Murtagh, satisfied, leaning in for one last kiss before he would set back to work on the ever-pleasing enterprise of getting his lover off whilst making him squirm as much as possible in the process – but it was not to be.

“Lord Murtagh? Are you here?” an unknown voice called out – a servant’s voice, perhaps, if the title was anything to go by. That, and neither Arya nor Nasuada were known for shouting. Whoever it was, she had horrid timing. And she was coming closer.

Thinking quickly – there was no way Eragon would be able to make himself presentable before the nameless lady set her sights on them – Murtagh rose to his feet, grabbed Eragon’s shoulders, and tossed him into the brush covered ditch on the other side of the tree with a commanding hiss: “Stay down and don’t move!”

He then readjusted his cloak to hide his own aching need (thankfully diminishing in his anxiety) and walked to meet the lady. “I am here!” he called, just as she came into view. She wore Nasuada’s colors. A messenger.

“My lord!” she smiled, seemingly relieved to have finally found him. “I have been searching all over for you! Lady Nasuada bade me find you and inform you that she is awaiting your report in the council’s tent and desires that you meet her there post haste.”

“Very well,” Murtagh said with a courteous nod. “Inform your lady I will be along presently.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Pensively, he watched the messenger walk until she disappeared, and then turned to face his fate: a furious Eragon, laying tangled in the brush at the foot of the ditch, an overabundance of exposed skin scratched and dirtied by his tumble.

“You,” he started in a growl, “are a dead man.”

It was Murtagh’s turn to chuckle nervously, even as he ventured bravely down into the ditch to help his irate lover to his feet. Eragon was not grateful.

“Let me get this straight: you came to find me _immediately_ upon your return – and _dared_ to _accost_ me when you _knew_ someone would come looking for you, for your mission report?” Eragon’s eyes blazed beautifully. The boy was so lovely when he was angry.

“Uh – yes?” he admitted, offering an apologetic grin. “And now it seems our time is up.” He turned to make his retreat. Better luck later.

“You don’t seriously intend to _leave me like this_?” Eragon screeched. How dare he be treated so abominably!

Murtagh winced, turning slowly to eye his half-clad and (shockingly!) still aroused lover. Realization filled him, and with it – amusement: Eragon had been _excited_ by their near brush with disaster. “You’re right,” he said lightly, leaning down to…

…pull up Eragon’s trousers and properly cover his manly bits.

Eragon gapped, too stunned to respond as Murtagh climbed up the ditch and continued in the direction the messenger had disappeared, throwing a smug farewell over his shoulder: “’Til next time, my love!”

Taking shuddering breath, Eragon considered his right hand and sighed: “Well, I guess it’s just you and me again today.”

And just see if he’d let Murtagh have his way with him anytime soon! The cad!


End file.
